“No shit,” she heard Louella say a second later. She turned her head to see Louella’s face assume a peculiar excited expression. “What is it?” Alicia mouthed.
Louella laid a hand over the receiver. “Pedal to the metal,” she whispered. “They’ve picked up Treebeard.”
Chapter 7
Late afternoon on Christmas Eve, with early darkness falling, Kip Penrose stood on the wide courthouse steps flanked by Alicia Maldonado and a few other D.A. office lackeys. He felt himself master of the moment. This was his press conference. He had enormous news to impart. If all the world was a stage, then he was the star player.
He stared down at the reporters massed below him, their faces raised toward him expectantly. “Thanks to the tireless efforts of my office,” he began, “three days ago law-enforcement agencies not only in the state of California but throughout the nation launched an extensive manhunt for the environmental extremist known as Treebeard.”
It didn’t faze Kip that, behind his left shoulder, Alicia Maldonado gave a little snort when he delivered his “tireless efforts” line. So what if his office hadn’t really led the manhunt effort? That was splitting hairs. What she didn’t know was that if you could take credit for something big, Just Do It.
“As I apprised the media forty-eight hours ago,” he continued, “John David Stennis, who calls himself Treebeard, is the prime suspect in the murder of gubernatorial candidate Daniel Gaines. Physical evidence collected at the crime scene points conclusively to him. And hours after Mr. Gaines was brutally killed, Treebeard fled his longtime campsite, in haste,” he added, index finger in the air to emphasize the point.
Kip raised his chin a notch. He was much more comfortable than he had been at his newscon a few days earlier. Newscon was an insider term he’d picked up from one of the reporters, and he intended to sprinkle it liberally into his conversation. Insider terms showed how savvy he was, how much he understood, how totally he was in the loop of the movers and the shakers.
He paused. He’d arrived at his most important line. In its honor, he assumed his most portentous tone. “I am pleased to announce that the fugitive known as Treebeard has been apprehended.”
Videotape rolled. Bulbs flashed. Reporters scribbled. Again Kip paused, partly to allow the import of his words to sink in, partly to bask in the knowledge that all eyes were on him. These reporters might sometimes have their way with him, skewering him in their newspapers and on their radio call-in shows. But not here. Not now.
“Where was Treebeard picked up?” a male reporter called, which annoyed Kip. He hadn’t finished his prepared statement yet. But he had to respond.
“In Mendocino County, near the town of Laytonville.”
“Where’s that?” the same reporter yelled.
Kip had no idea. Didn’t these people have maps? Then he heard Alicia’s voice in his left ear.
“It’s a hundred and eighty-five miles north of Salinas off Highway 101. He was on Branscomb Road, we believe heading for the south fork of the Eel River and the Admiral William Standley State Recreation Area.”
That woman’s ability to retain detail was amazing. Of course, it also proved her limitations. She might be good at seeing the trees, but it was Kip Penrose who understood the forest.
Feeling magnanimous—and also aware that he’d already forgotten most of what Alicia had whispered to him—he let her tell the reporters where Treebeard was captured. Then the questions kept popping up and it was impossible not to answer them. How did Treebeard get all the way north to Mendocino County? Did he resist arrest? Who gave law enforcement the tip-off that Treebeard was in the area?
The ins and outs of the surveillance detail and of Treebeard’s hitchhiking weren’t all that interesting to Kip, mostly because he’d had nothing to do with them. Finally, though, the questions circled back to his territory. “Where’s Treebeard now?” a woman TV reporter asked.
“He is currently being held in the Monterey County Adult Detention Center. And a decision has been made that he be held without bail,” he added.
The woman reporter frowned. She was middle-aged and frowzy, Kip thought, surprised she still had a TV job. “What decision had to be made?” she said. “Of course he’s being held without bail. Isn’t this a capital case?”
Kip was momentarily flummoxed. Then, “She’s right,” Alicia whispered into his ear. “You should know that, Kip.”
How irritating! He did know it! He’d just had to think about it for a second. He felt his cool slip away, like the top scoop of ice cream on a jumbo cone.
But the questions kept coming, so he had no time to collect himself. Had Treebeard admitted to the murder? No, he’d refused to say a word about anything. Would he hire his own legal counsel or be appointed a public defender? Too soon to tell, but a public defender was likely. Since the local jury pool might already be tainted by the press coverage, would there be a change of venue?
At that last question, Kip was horrified. “Change of venue?” he heard himself repeat. Meaning he might not be able to prosecute the case? Meaning he might lose all that exposure in front of the voters? Kip heard the shock in his own voice and realized the reporters must have heard it, too, because some of them were giving him strange looks. “No, there is no possibility of a change in venue,” he declared, then took one more question so it wouldn’t look too odd and ended the press conference.
“What is the chance of a change in venue?” he whispered to Alicia the moment they were out of earshot.
“Don’t worry about it, Kip. It won’t happen. And even if it did, you’d still get to prosecute the case.”
He glanced at her, surprised. She actually sounded gentle. She seemed preoccupied, too, staring at the ground as they walked, her brow furrowed. He felt a surge of gratitude. She hadn’t made fun of him or yelled at him, both of which were par for the course for her.
Then, “Not all the network people were there today,” she said. “Don’t you think that’s weird?”
She was actually asking for his opinion! “Yes, it is,” he immediately agreed. “Why wouldn’t they all be there?” Then he started to worry. Didn’t a press conference he called carry enough weight? Were the national media already getting bored with the story?
Alicia punched the code in the keypad door, then seemed to brighten. “Maybe they just didn’t have enough notice.” The buzzer sounded and she held the door open for him. Kip, amazed at this first-ever show of politeness, walked through ahead of her. “What was the notice, about two hours?” she asked. He nodded. “The network people aren’t hanging around here—they’re off doing other stories. They were the last ones to show up when Gaines got killed, remember? But I bet they’ll come back now that Treebeard’s in custody.”
The things that woman knew. It amazed him. She had a lot figured out, even about things she had no business knowing.
Kip headed for his office, liking Alicia Maldonado more than he usually did. It saddened him that she wasn’t in this mood more often. It was nice behaving like real colleagues, instead of people thrust together by work who hated each other.
*
The next day was Christmas. Alicia spent the morning in the D.A.’s office, which she had entirely to herself. She had a few hours to get some work done before starting the so-called festivities, round one at her mother’s house with her sisters and nieces and nephews, and round two with Jorge at his mom’s. She should be happy, she knew; she had family who loved her, a man who loved her, all her life ahead of her. Well, all her life past age thirty-five. Yet the only thing she could think was, Another year down. Another one bites the dust. And what do you want to bet I’ll be sitting here just like this next year, too?
After another twelve months of slaving away for Penrose.
Her stomach knotted at the thought of him. So pompous, so self-satisfied, so damn lazy. His idea of a rough day at the office was a few hours schmoozing on the phone, then entertaining fellow politicos at a boozy lunch and sticking taxpayers
with the bill. He was a master of sucking up, though that skill vied with his other great talent of getting other people to do his work.
Yet …
It galled her, but to herself she had to admit it. Who’d won elective office, him or her? He’d won on his first try. She’d lost on her first two. And why? Because he did all the things she didn’t. He networked like a maniac, and played the name game, and never ruffled anyone’s feathers. Except of those unimportant birds perched below him on the pecking order.
Like her.
She sighed, exceedingly tired, and not just from midnight Mass. She was pulling the plastic wrap off a broken mini candy cane, hoping a sugar rush would lift her mood, when her desk phone rang. “Maldonado,” she answered.
“Merry Christmas.”
Her heart quickened. It was a male voice. A male voice that sounded exactly like—
“Aren’t you going to wish me Merry Christmas, too?” The voice was teasing.
She lolled back in her chair, a smile on her face. All anger at Milo Pappas receded into the unlit, unprobed corners of her memory. “I would wish you Merry Christmas but I didn’t think you big news types celebrated the holidays.”
“We deign to celebrate the major ones.”
“Where are you?”
“Driving south on 101. We just got into SFO.”
“Oh!” San Francisco airport. “So you were out of town.”
“Yes, in New York and D.C. But now I’m back, in your beautiful neck of the woods.” She felt oddly pleased at his phrasing. “You know,” he went on, “you’re the first person I’ve called since I got in.”
“I’m flattered. As clearly you want me to be.”
“Actually, I lied. You’re not the first person I called.” Small commotion in the car, then he continued. “The first was my executive producer, whom I detest but to whom I am contractually obligated to report my every move.”
“What a pain in the ass.”
He laughed. “You don’t know the half of it.” More commotion. “So, Alicia Maldonado, why in the world am I reaching you in your office on Christmas morning?”
She felt a crashing embarrassment. What a huge smoke signal that she had no life. “Well”—she tried to keep her voice light—“you’re working, aren’t you?”
“I am, indeed.” He sighed, and to her surprise she sensed that Milo Pappas—big network-news star Milo Pappas—might be a little frustrated himself. “That’s why I’m calling, actually,” he went on, and her heart sagged. Despite their friendly sparring, their easy familiarity of not even exchanging names—especially despite that single kiss she was having such difficulty forgetting—she should know that Milo Pappas was calling Alicia Maldonado strictly for business reasons. “I was hoping you could bring me up to speed on the Gaines case. I understand Treebeard was arrested yesterday, but I have a few questions. For example—”
“I’m sorry,” she cut in, “but I don’t have time to brief you.”
“So I’m getting the official brush-off again, am I?” He chuckled. “What’d I do this time, Alicia?”
He was so personal, so intimate, as if they were fast friends, or so much more than friends. Using her name so often, too, which unlike most people he pronounced the way she did: A-lee-see-uh. It was part of his charm, she knew, which apparently he could spin like a web whenever the need arose. Like when he wanted something. Her back stiffened.
“You can guess from the fact that I’m in my office on Christmas Day that I’ve got a lot of work to do,” she told him. “If you have any questions you’ll have to ask our press—”
“I know, I know, your press officer. But I’ll bet she’s not working today.” He sighed, then laughed again. “You know, Alicia, you’re a tough one. But that’s why I like you. Anyway, Merry Christmas.” Then he hung up.
Slowly she replaced the receiver. Damn that man. Damn how she always felt when she thought about that man. Damn how those three simple words I like you would bounce happily in her memory for the rest of the day, then resurface that night when she crawled between the sheets and stared at the ceiling in the dark. How could someone she barely knew get such a rise out of her?
She bit off the curvy end of her candy cane. She didn’t like a single one of the possibilities.
*
Two days later Milo huddled with Mac and Tran in the chilly vestibule of a Carmel Valley Episcopal church whose name he couldn’t for the life of him remember. Episcopal churches ran together in his mind: all of them massive and dusty and brooding, like English castles on rainy days. In minutes Daniel Gaines’ funeral service would begin, and renowned industrialists and politicians would be forced to speak well of their dearly departed rival for the first and last time in their lives. And Milo would be forced not only to listen, but to take notes.
He sighed, cold even in his wool overcoat, reluctant to take his place among the reporters and photographers and camera crews in the rear pews reserved for the press. His body ached from lack of sleep and too many live reports filed from windblown street corners, and his mind felt unsettled and distracted. He was loath to admit it, but knew full well the cause of his disquiet. Today, for the first time since she’d left him, he would see Joan in the flesh. No more grainy newspaper photos or slick magazine images; no more videotape; just the woman herself. True, she would be at a distance, and he would be the last thing on her mind, but the mere prospect of her physical proximity unnerved him.
Slowly the media pews filled, their occupants raucous in comparison to the studied solemnity of the mourners. No wonder Alicia Maldonado doesn’t like reporters, he thought, then corrected himself. It wasn’t that she disliked reporters; it was that she distrusted them. That was probably smart, though it didn’t exactly aid his cause.
The question he’d been mulling resurfaced in his mind. Why not ask Alicia to dinner? Why not pursue the attraction? Milo had finely tuned antennae when it came to women. He knew when a woman found him attractive, and he knew that Alicia Maldonado did. His antennae were fairly vibrating in her case.
So he was reporting on a case she was prosecuting. So what? Why couldn’t they separate their personal and professional lives? Of course they’d be treading a fine line, but he believed them both up to the task. And it would be too late to get to know her once the case was over. He’d have to move on to other assignments, and the window of opportunity would close forever.
Mac, who stood beside Milo in the vestibule, shuffled his feet. He was loaded with gear, and Milo knew he wanted to get inside to claim a camera position before all the good ones were taken. Yet both Mac and Tran seemed to know what it cost Milo to be there. They’d been oddly solicitous all morning, not razzing him, not rushing him, not saying much at all. Respectfully quiet, as if he were grieving.
Mac met his eyes, then cocked his chin toward the nave. Milo sighed. “Okay, let’s go in,” he said, and all three made their way deeper into the church.
Milo no longer caused a flurry among his fellow reporters. He was old hat now. They were used to the star correspondent being among their ragtag number. He unceremoniously pushed a few people aside to claim an aisle seat for himself while Mac staked out a prime position among the jostling camera crews, though it was really Mac’s height that would give him a superior vantage point. Milo whipped his reporter’s notebook from the inside pocket of his overcoat, intending to take a stab at writing a lead-in to his piece for the WBS Evening News. But two reporters in the pew behind him were whispering so loudly he found himself listening to every word they unleashed.
“What’s to say she can’t do it?” A woman’s voice, hissy.
“What’s she ever done except be born a Hudson?” A man, cocky and dismissive.
“What’s she ever done?” The woman sounded affronted at the very question. “How about get an MBA at Stanford? And work on Wall Street? Those are both tougher than anything you’ve ever done, buddy.”
“Nothing’s tough when you’re born into the right family.” The man
chuckled. “Besides, she didn’t actually get an MBA, remember? And she worked on Wall Street for about ten minutes, thanks to Daddy lining up a job for her. My nine-year-old could do better.”
“But if she has even half her father’s ability, she could be a fantastic—”
“If is the operative word, especially now that her father’s not around to make things happen. ‘Daddy, daddy, help me …’ ” The man assumed a whiny falsetto, and the woman collapsed in giggles, conversation ended.
Milo jabbed his pen through the spirals of his notebook. Speculation about a political future for Joan had begun, and not just among the press. The prior night at a restaurant he’d overheard a conversation among people clearly jazzed at the idea that Web Hudson’s only child might step up to the political plate now that both her father and husband were gone. It was the way Americans looked to every Kennedy, or every Bush, to see where they might find the next star. The statement Joan had released on Christmas Eve had something to do with it, and he wondered if it was a calculated move.
Politics and Joan didn’t strike Milo as a good mix. She possessed some fine qualities, but a thick skin and an appetite for hard work weren’t among them. Not to mention that she didn’t exactly exhibit a lot of staying power. Unless she’d undergone a radical metamorphosis, he thought she was far better suited to enjoying the fruits of other people’s labors than to working in the fields herself.
Milo watched as familiar faces in business and government filled the pews to capacity. There were a few hundred mourners already and still more pushing their way into the church. An organist played something dirgelike, a gloomy accompaniment to the rain pelting the stained-glass windows. He recrossed his legs, eager to get the service over with but reluctant to see it start.
There was a commotion behind him. The organ music slid into a different, equally funereal melody. As if they were one, all heads pivoted toward the rear of the church.
Milo turned to see a phalanx of black-clad men and women slowly move up the central aisle. Pallbearers bore on their shoulders a dark, gleaming casket on which rested an enormous spray of white lilies. And there, behind them, was Joan.
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